Faking It Read online

  “I’m feeling fairly grateful myself,” he said, his voice as calm as ever.

  I didn’t even make a dent in his concentration, she thought. It had felt good, okay great, but not great enough to get rid of this damn weird feeling that always hit her afterward. You don’t know me. You think you’ve had me, but you don’t know me.

  Of course, it was a damn good thing he didn’t know her. She was going to have to stop saying yes, or he’d get to know her. Maybe she needed therapy. Maybe she and Gwennie and Louise could go, and they could get a family deal.

  “You’re thinking again,” Davy said as he pulled his pants back on.

  Tilda opened her eyes and forced a smile. “Just that you’re off the hook for the rest of the paintings now.”

  “Oh, we’ll get the rest of the paintings.” Davy stood up, dressed again. “But it’ll have to be quick. I’m on my way to Australia.”

  “Right,” Tilda said, not surprised that the other paintings were still a sure thing. Davy kept all his promises and got everything he went after. Which was why from now on, she had to be something he wasn’t going after. He was just too damn dangerous.

  Behind her, the Paris Sisters sang “I Love How You Love Me,” evidently not the kind of women who ever had weird thoughts after sex, and Tilda felt depressed and wondered why. Maybe it was just exhaustion. Long day. Strong orgasm.

  “You’ve got that look again,” Davy said.

  “Really tired.” Tilda stood up and zipped her jeans. “Well, good night.”

  “Celeste, we’re sharing the same bed,” Davy said as she unlocked the door.

  “Right,” she said. “See you there, Ralph.” Then she took the steps two at a time while he stood at the bottom, shaking his head.

  TILDA GOT up the next morning careful not to wake Davy. She couldn’t find Nadine, so she turned Steve over to Gwen for baby-sitting while she went to work. Gwen didn’t seem to mind. “Variety,” she said, looking down at the little dog. “I live for it.”

  “Are you okay?” Tilda said, taken aback.

  “Fine,” Gwen said.

  “Mason was sweet last night at poker,” Tilda said, prodding a little. “How was lunch?”

  “Nice,” Gwen said.

  “Gwennie?”

  “We talked about the gallery. He appears to yearn for it.” She flipped open her Double-Crostic book.

  “Maybe we should talk about the gallery.” Tilda picked up a little yellow paper umbrella Gwen had stuck in her pencil holder. “Drinking on the job?”

  “Don’t you have to paint today?”

  “Just the base coat,” Tilda said, looking at the crostic book. Gwen had been doodling little umbrellas in the book margins. “And then Davy and I are going after a painting. What is it with you and umbrellas?”

  “So how is Davy?” Gwen said. “Happy?”

  “Asleep.” Tilda put the umbrella back and escaped out through the office.

  But when she opened the door to the van, Nadine was sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Hello?” Tilda said.

  “I want to come along,” Nadine said, and she still looked a little rocky from the Poor Baby, so Tilda said, “Sure,” and climbed in.

  “Here’s the thing,” Nadine said when they were heading north. “With Burton gone, so is the singing gig.”

  “There are probably other bands,” Tilda said. “You have a great voice, Dine.”

  “I didn’t like singing with the band,” Nadine said. “I know that’s where the money probably is, but it was noisy and a lot of the songs were stupid and nobody really listened anyway. It wasn’t really music.”

  “Okay,” Tilda said. “Do you want me to talk to your dad about the Double Take?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good,” Nadine said. “I’m underage. I can’t sing there for another two years even if he wanted to let me, which he doesn’t. But that’s okay. I’m thinking I might want to be a painter.”

  “Oh,” Tilda said, light dawning. “Well, today is not going to be very interesting. I’m painting the base coat and looking at color samples under the light there. Tomorrow I’m doing the underpainting. You can help with that if you want.”

  “That’d be good,” Nadine said. “Because you make pretty good money doing this, right? I mean, you were in that home magazine and everything.”

  “That helped,” Tilda said, thinking of Clarissa Donnelly and her sunflowers, the magazine left strategically nearby. “But it’s not exciting work, Dine. It’s a lot like you and the band. It’s painting, but it’s not art. I’m copying other people’s art to make wallpaper.”

  “But it makes money,” Nadine said.

  “You do not have to support this family,” Tilda said.

  “Right,” Nadine said. “You think I could learn to do this?”

  “I think you can do anything,” Tilda said.

  “Cool,” Nadine said, and sighed. “So what’s this about Mr. Brown?”

  “What?” Tilda said.

  “Mr. Brown. When he moved in, you told Grandma you thought his name was fake. Should we worry?”

  “No,” Tilda said. “If that becomes a problem, I can take care of that, too.”

  “You know, I can help,” Nadine said, sounding exasperated.

  “Why don’t you be a kid instead?” Tilda said. “Enjoy it while you’ve got it.”

  “You obviously don’t remember what being a kid is like,” Nadine said and slumped down in her seat.

  Being an adult has its drawbacks, too, Tilda thought, and took the exit for her next mural.

  BACK IN Tilda’s bedroom, Davy woke up feeling less than triumphant, especially when he rolled over and she was gone. He squinted at the clock. It was after ten, she’d had to start a mural today, it didn’t mean anything that she wasn’t there, but still...

  Yeah, like you’ve ever wanted to wake up with a woman you’ve slept with, he told himself. Especially one who seemed less than pleased with the night before, which was really confusing because she’d definitely made it that time. Complicated woman, Celeste.

  Maybe getting the fifth painting that afternoon would work the kinks out of her. That was the problem with women, they were high maintenance, needed attention all the time, flowers, phone calls—

  “Oh, hell,” he said, remembering his sister Sophie. She’d probably tried to call him. He crawled out of bed and found his cell phone in his jacket pocket and clicked it on to check his messages. It rang almost immediately and he looked at the number. Nobody he knew. “Hello?” he said.

  “I’ve been calling you for days,” Ronald said. “You should leave that cell phone on.”

  “So I can talk to you?” Davy said, sitting back down on the bed. “No.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” Ronald said. “I wanted you to know that Clea knows you’re in town.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Davy said.

  “Well, I didn’t tell her,” Ronald said.

  “Blow me, Rabbit.”

  Ronald exhaled loudly into the phone, apparently in disgust. “I’m trying to help you. She’s really angry. You’re in danger.”

  “Am I?” Davy said.

  “She’s hired a hit man, Davy,” Ronald said.

  “Good to know,” Davy said, checking his watch.

  “I didn’t tell you this before,” Ronald went on, “but one of the reasons she had to have your money is that her husband didn’t leave her anything. She needs that money, Davy. You should get out of town.”

  “She’s lying to you, Rabbit,” Davy said tiredly.

  “No,” Ronald said. “It’s true. He had a great art collection and the warehouse it was in burned down, and the insurance company is refusing to pay. He was wiped out. She really needs your money. Let her have it and go.”

  “A torched warehouse? Christ, that’s the oldest fraud in the book. I can’t believe she—” Davy said, and then stopped. “Wait a minute. How do you know he had a great collection?”

  “I told you, I helped Clea